Nightmares
by SerenLyall
Summary: In which Elrond reflects. Or: A character study of Elrond Peredhel, after he returns from war overseas, but before he meets the young florist next door. (Part 1 of Burn the book that says you took the Autumn) (Bookshop AU) (TW: self-harm)


**disclaimer:** Lord of the Rings/The Silmarillion and all thus-related and recognizable characters are not mine, and never shall be. :{

**rating / warnings:** Teen+ / self-harm, mentions of character deaths

**other tags:** bookshop AU, elrond is a combat medic vet, he is extremely not okay, character study

**series:** Burn the book that says you took the Autumn

**notes:** What am I doing starting a new project? I DON'T KNOW. This one is going to be a series of oneshots (or two-shots), though, that I can write in between other things, all connected to form one (hopefully) coherent story line. Is it going to be a soap opera? Maybe. A romance? Certainly! Basically, though, this series tells the story of Elrond Peredhel, a combat medic veteran, who returns from war and opens a bookshop. Sometime thereafter, a lovely young woman named Celebrian (who is an interior designer) opens a florist's beside his bookshop. The two meet and the rest is, as they say, history. The title of the series is taken from the Metric song "The Art of Doubt".

Anyway, this series will range from dark to light, fluffy to angsty, romance to gen! I hope you all enjoy - and I'd love to hear your thoughts!

* * *

Nightmares

Elrond wakes from his nightmare with a start and a jolt. He sits upright in his small, cot-like bed, breathing heavily, sweat dampening his shirt and sticking it to his back. He shivers in the chill of the night air flowing in through the open window above his bed, then swings his legs over the edge and to the floor. The wooden floorboards are a welcome shock of chill against his bare skin, and he stands and walks unsteadily towards the bathroom.

The bathroom is small and cracked, with a toilet and sink crammed together in front of the small, mildewed bathtub. A lace shower curtain cover hangs in front of the plastic, woven in an array of waterfalls and cliffs. When Elrond had seen the image on the box in the store, he had fallen instantly in love, a strange feeling of peace washing over him. He had bought it on a whim—a luxury buy, for all that it had only been $8—and now, whenever he stripped to step into the shower, it felt as if the waterfalls were playing against his skin, smoothing away the memories and the scars.

Now he stares at it in the harsh light of the fluorescents mounted above the mirror hanging over the sink, and finds it is not bringing him the sense of peace it usually does. The taste of his nightmare is still too strong in his mouth and in his mind, full of blood and the smell of offal and the sound of the dying. He remembers the screams, and the sounds of bones crunching and skin tearing, and the concussive _thump, thump, thud!_ of the bombs exploding near and nearer still, the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of the machineguns firing, the _spit spit spat_ of the MP-40's tearing down chunks of stone walls and chunks of flesh.

He makes it to the toilet before he vomits, the bile thin and sour against his tongue and in his throat as it burns—as it burns just as sharp and vile as the memories clawing their way to the surface of his mind.

Once he is done, he stands and makes his unsteady way to the sink. He turns on the tap, then rinses his mouth with the tepid water, drinks a few handfuls, and then straightens.

He is tall, with broad shoulders and long, dark hair that he often keeps up and out of his face in a standard military bun—though sometimes, when he is feeling daring and rebellious, he will put it in a ponytail. His eyes are grey—or so everyone else says, though he claims they are blue unless seen in the right light—and two long, white scars track across his cheek to his chin, cutting through his mouth and reaching for his ear.

He fingers these scars now, staring at them in the cracked mirror. They still pain him, sometimes—phantom pain and real pain in turn, reminding him constantly of the serrated knife; of the hands on his head, holding him down; of the laughter…

Elrond blinks and comes back to himself. He is breathing hard, his heart racing, and he is shivering. _Breathe_, he tells himself sternly. _In, two, three, four—out, two, three, four, five, six, seven…_

Again. And again. And again he forces himself to count as he breathes, hands braced against the sink counter, the ceramic of the surface cold against his palms, hard beneath his fingers. It is real, real, real—more real than the phantom hands, and the phantom blades, the phantom gunfire, the phantom buildings falling, the phantom screams, the phantom pain— _No_, he thinks, and stops the thoughts in their tracks. _No, that is _enough.

He straightens. Stares at himself in the mirror. He is pale and gaunt, with dark shadows under his eyes.

Elrond turns away.

He leaves the bathroom, flicking off the light, and then makes his blind way across his small bedroom to the hall that connects it to the living room and the kitchen. There he turns on the lights—warm, yellow things, compared to the harsh white light of his bathroom—and takes in the small room. The kitchen sports a gas stove and oven, a sink to the right of it, a table on which sits a microwave and coffeemaker, and precisely two counters—one on each side of the stove. A refrigerator is shoved into one corner, short and squat and old white; the door, when it opens, hits the nearest of the two table chairs.

Elrond opens the fridge and roots around for a moment before he finds the milk. He had stashed it in the door the night before, after making his oatmeal, and had forgotten where he put it; he had just gone grocery shopping the day before, and so his refrigerator is more full than usual, forcing him to put things in strange places.

He puts the milk on the table, then fetches a mug down from the cabinet. It is red, and painted with an eight-pointed star on the front; it has a chip in the lip, as well as in the handle—but it is Elrond's favorite mug. It had been a gift from his brother long ago.

Sighing, Elrond also dug the cocoa mix out of the next cupboard over and, opening the lid and fetching a spoon, dumped a large helping into the mug. He added milk, then stuck the mug in the microwave for two minutes.

The two minutes he had to wait were excruciating. He stood with arms crossed, one bare foot tapping the linoleum tile painted with flowers and vines, mind consumed with counting down the seconds. _Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven…_

Once the cocoa was done, and he had the hot mug in his hands, he walked into the sitting room and sat down on his old, threadbare couch. He had had this one piece of furniture since before he had gone off to war, and it shows, in the garish flowers painted on its cushions and back, and in the way the pillows sag in the middle. All the same, he is fond of it.

_You're a sentimental fool_, he tells himself


End file.
